


Almost

by Saziikins



Series: Family Ties [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gambling Addiction, Greg is a single parent, M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never really been Greg's, but that doesn't mean he can't get jealous when John Watson comes along. </p><p>Set during Sherlock season one, he and Sherlock are still struggling to find a way through their relationship/arrangement/whatever it's called.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost

**Author's Note:**

> Set before A Study In Pink, after The Blind Banker and after The Great Game.
> 
> In chronological order we have: It Changes Everything, Object Permanence, Almost, Addicted Still, and An Open Home.
> 
> Or, in order of publication, it's: An Open Home, Object Permanence, Addicted Still, It Changes Everything, and Almost.

If there was only one truth in Greg’s world it was this: Sherlock Holmes was never his.

That had been apparent from the start. Yes, they had some pretty wild and incredible sex but that was it. It was never quite right. Never quite enough. Consuming, yes. God, wasn’t it just, in those early days?

If Greg wasn’t dealing with Sherlock’s drugs, then he was dealing with his mood swings and his temper. But it was intoxicating.

Unhealthy.

Eventually, they’d ended it and Greg had moved on. Until Tessa left. Until he was left alone with two babies who depended on him. Sherlock did very well to give up the drugs then. Greg never once went back to the bookies or the casino. They supported each other through it without ever once needing to discuss it.

When Sherlock craved drugs, he found Greg. When Greg needed an escape, he found Sherlock.

Sometimes it felt as though they were a normal couple taking care of two children together. At other times it was as though they’d made a horrible mistake. And other times, Sherlock would stop contact altogether. ‘I need to focus on the work’, he’d say. ‘All that matters is the work. Without the work, my mind is nothing. I am nothing’.

But sometimes the work and their relationship collided. After several days of figuring out a case, tracking a murderer through London (and sometimes chasing Sherlock through London), they’d wind up in bed together.

And then Sherlock was forced out of his home in Montague Street. Needing a place to stay, he moved into Greg’s. He never completely unpacked, but it worked. They solved crimes together, both at the Yard and in the house, spending hours pouring over paperwork in the dining room. They often cooked meals together and took turns reading to the twins.

One night, Sherlock rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on Greg’s chest. He wore a lazy smile on his face and their lips met in unhurried kisses. Greg couldn’t help but take advantage of his softened mood, running his hands down his back. Sherlock hummed, leaning up to deepen the kiss.

Greg ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, their tongues meeting in the middle, teeth scraping against lips.

“Oh,” Greg whispered, opening his eyes to stare at him.

Sherlock’s lips were red, his tongue flicking out to lick them. Greg grinned and stroked his cheek.

“I suppose I should mention,” Sherlock muttered, frowning. “I’ve found a flat.”

Greg blinked at him, pushing a strand of Sherlock’s hair back behind his ear. “What?”

“It’s in Baker Street.”

“Bit rich for you, isn’t it?” Greg asked.

“The landlady’s giving me a discount.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock shook his head, pressing kisses to Greg’s neck. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Greg asked. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You have a look.”

Greg sighed and sunk down against the pillows. “I dunno. Just. I didn’t realise you were looking for a flat, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t going to stay here forever.”

“No,” Greg murmured. He closed his eyes. No, he supposed deep down he knew that. Sherlock wasn’t one to be caged up, to be put under lock and key. He was his own man, very much a free spirit. He needed his space and acres of it. “Look,” Greg said after a while, opening his eyes. “If I asked you to move in, would it make a difference?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “What?”

“Would you move in with us? Here?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he reached out with one hand, cupping Greg’s cheek. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but then he hesitated. Instead, he brought their mouths together, and soon the conversation had fallen by the wayside as they sought pleasure rather than words.

Enter stage left: John Watson.

He came from so left field that he left a trail of confused glances in his wake, wherever he went.

And Greg. Greg felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. Thrown out of a car window. Left to rot somewhere on a motorway. He let it go. What else could he do? He had no claim to Sherlock Holmes, and they’d never promised each other anything. So, he watched from a distance as Sherlock and John began their own tales in London, began to solve their own cases. Together. Without him.

* * *

“Where were you?”

Greg didn’t even jolt at the sudden invasion in his office. He’d grown used to it long before now. He continued to stare at his computer screen, finishing the paragraph he was reading. He slowly raised his head, flicking his eyes up from his desk to the face of the only person who would interrogate him like that.

“You might need to be specific,” Greg said, flashing him a smile. “Take a seat.”

“I asked for you for my case,” Sherlock said, a deep frown set on his face. “Specifically.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.”

Sherlock continued to watch him, his lips pressed tight together. “Where were you? What were you doing that was more important than my case?”

“I was in court, Sherlock. Happens from time to time. I have to go in my smartest suit and stand up and-”

“-Oh shut up.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You asked, I told you.”

“Where were you?”

“In court.”

“You’re lying.”

Greg chuckled. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Do you think I don’t already know all your tells?” Sherlock stepped further into the office, sinking down onto the chair opposite the desk.

“What are my tells, out of interest?”

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be moronic. I’m not going to give you the chance to hide them from me.”

“How come you’re the only one who gets to hide everything, ‘ey?” Greg asked, a slight bitterness to his tone. “Not really fair for you to be the only one who gets to lie without anyone noticing.”

“Oh, I wish that were true.”

Greg blinked at him. “Why?” he asked. “Who notices?”

Sherlock stayed quiet, his eyes roaming over Greg’s desk. “Where were you? And don’t pretend you were in court, I know otherwise.”

“Why does it matter so much?”

“Because I work for you and you hate it when I solve other people’s cases.”

Greg began to laugh. “God’s sake,” he muttered. “I really don’t, Sherlock. I’m not possessive of you like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you consult with me because I’m convenient. I know that. And you consult for other people when they have good cases for you too. That’s fine.”

“You loaned me out.”

Greg shook his head. “I didn’t. The call came in, I had to go to court, I passed it to Dimmock.”

“I know you weren’t at court, so where were you?” The words came more harshly than either of them seemed to expect. Sherlock blinked for a moment, relaxing his hands on the chair arms.

Greg licked his lips, staring at him. “What does it matter?”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t exactly answer to you, Sherlock.”

“I don’t like it when you hide things from me.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You and me both, sunshine.”

“I didn’t hide anything.”

“No. Course you didn’t.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “You’re mad at me.”

“You’re easy to get mad at sometimes, you know this.”

“What did I do?”

Greg sighed, rubbing his face and turning his attention back to his computer. “It’s… it’s nothing you did, it’s just. Circumstances, right?”

“John.”

“No. It’s not John.”

Sherlock began to smile, a knowing look on his face. “Oh, but it is. It is John. He’s put your nose out of joint.”

“Stop it, alright?”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, standing up and then walking round to Greg’s side of the desk. He sat down on the edge of it, reaching forward to rest his hands on Greg’s shoulders.

“What you doing now?” Greg frowned. God, this man never failed to surprise him. But this. This somehow didn’t seem fair. Sherlock hadn’t shown any interest in him at all since… well, since John Watson.

Greg had put it down to Sherlock needing to focus on the work at first. He complained about how Greg distracted him often enough. But then John arrived and… yes. Fine. There was some jealousy and resentment which had settled in his chest. Resting there, holding him to ransom.

How could he not be jealous? For five years, Sherlock had been his more than Sherlock had been anyone else’s. Yes, he regularly slipped through Greg’s fingertips. But Greg had asked him to move in. And Sherlock never answered. He never said yes. Never said no either, so there’d been a hope there that he might say yes. Until John Watson.

Greg met his eyes with a scathing expression, putting his hands on top of Sherlock’s as if to push him back. But Sherlock seemed to take it as an invitation, leaning forward as he did to brush their mouths together.

“What are you doing?” Greg asked, pulling back.

Sherlock frowned at him, lips parted. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Well, I think you’re kissing me, but I don’t know why.”

“I’m trying to make you forgive me.”

Greg blinked. “Forgive you?”

“I made you jealous. Unintentionally, but you follow the British tradition that you apologise, even if it’s not your fault.”

Greg snorted. “Sherlock. Sherlock, you haven’t even come near me in ages. This is all a bit… well, out of the blue, truth be told.”

Sherlock frowned. “Out of the blue?” he echoed. He narrowed his eyes. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“But. But, who else do you think I do this with?”

For a moment, Greg was taken aback by the question. Well, he didn’t really think Sherlock did this with anyone else, not even John Watson, if he were honest. But with one look at Sherlock’s face, he appreciated what was happening.

This was Sherlock. He was some sort of magical mystery tour all in himself. Very rarely was anything straight forward. And for Sherlock, weeks and weeks without them talking or touching was nothing. Because Sherlock saw Greg as his, even when their… relationship, arrangement, whatever it was, was on stand-by. Even when the work took priority, Sherlock didn’t stop wanting him. Really, Sherlock was doing the best he could, the only way that he could.

Greg’s face softened and he squeezed Sherlock’s hands. He was rewarded with a slow smile, a delighted crinkle to the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “So, you’ve forgiven me then?” he asked.

Greg laughed and leaned forward to kiss him, rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. How he’d got so deep into this situation he’d never know.

Sherlock stood up then, buttoning up his coat. “Call me if you have anything interesting,” he said.

“That in then?” Greg asked with a grin. “Got what you wanted?”

Sherlock nodded and approached the door. He stopped for a second. “Where were you?” he asked, turning to face Greg. “You weren’t at court, so where were you?”

“Some things just need to stay secret, Sherlock,” Greg said, turning to his computer.

Sherlock paused for a moment before heading out of the door. Greg allowed himself a bemused smile, at how he’d never say he was in the Yard. That he monitored the case from afar, dropping hints to Dimmock. Well, it was only fair after all. There wasn’t much he could hide from Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

For Sherlock, it was a game. A series of puzzles, curious events and theories to extrapolate.

It had never been that for Greg. They were real people with families and friends. They were people who deserved better.

But Greg tolerated Sherlock’s outlook on puzzles and games, because ultimately it didn’t matter how either of them viewed the dead bodies. All that mattered was solving the crime.

But that was why Sherlock’s games with Moriarty were so hard to take. That he ran around with adrenaline in his veins, forgetting the real, living people strapped up with Semtex. But Greg had to let it lie, had to force his doubts down. Because he had to trust Sherlock to do his job and do the best he could.

But after the case of the fake painting, it seemed as though everything had been solved and Greg finally went home. He collected his children from his sister’s house, cooking them all a meal before tucking them into bed.

He sat at the dining room table, papers spread out over it. Since the bomber case, his other work had taken a back seat. Now he was back to it, reading reports and hunting for anything he may have missed.

As the clock turned to midnight, he turned the lights out, heading to the kitchen to pour a glass of water to take up to bed with him.

Then there was the knock. With a frown, he padded over to the door. Sherlock was stood behind it, coat done up, scarf on.

“Hey,” Greg whispered. “Wasn’t expecting you.” He tilted his head to gesture him inside. “Come in.”

Sherlock stepped over the threshold, his eyes zipping around as Greg closed the door.

“You alright?” Greg asked as he studied him. Sherlock’s face remained stoic, though he managed a small nod. Greg reached up to cup his cheek. “Bloody hell, you’re freezing. How long have you been outside for?”

No reply. Greg studied his eyes. Normal. His pupils were not unusually small or blown. Greg swallowed, brushing his thumb against Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Okay,” he muttered. “Alright. Whatever it is, we will sort it, I promise you.” He dropped his hand and took hold of Sherlock’s, twining their fingers together. “Okay then. Come up to bed, yeah?”

He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and was relieved when the gesture was returned. He led Sherlock upstairs, closing the door quietly behind them.

Sherlock stood beside the bed, his head bowed, making no moves to do anything at all. Greg stood in front of him, unwrapping his scarf and hanging it over the back of a chair.

“Been a tough few days, yeah?” he said, unbuttoning Sherlock’s coat. “I’m feeling pretty tired myself. Definitely ready to just get into bed.”

Sherlock helped him to slip the coat off, and Greg hung that up on the back of the door. Greg cupped his face in his hands, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his cold lips. Sherlock didn’t respond, just kept staring at him and then past him to the wall.

Greg began to unfasten his shirt and slid it off Sherlock’s shoulders. He opened a drawer to find one of his plain blue t-shirts, and he helped Sherlock put it on. It was a little too big for him, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

“Sit down,” Greg murmured, but Sherlock didn’t move. Trying to keep his concern down to a minimum, Greg unfastened Sherlock’s belt and then his trousers, pulling them down to his ankles. “You really need to sit down,” Greg said softly. “I need to get your shoes off.”

Sherlock shuffled until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. It would have looked comical with his over-sized shirt and trousers down to his ankles. But Greg had never seen him like this. It was frightening. He was so used to Sherlock being in control, that this was beyond anything he could comprehend.

Greg knelt down in front of him as Sherlock took a seat, and he untied his shoes and pulled off his socks. He stood up, taking a step back to begin to take his own clothes off. Sherlock grabbed his hand. Greg frowned at him. “Sherlock?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, tightening the hold on Greg’s hand. Greg stepped forward again, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. He held his lips there.

“Lie down,” Greg said. “Get into bed. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nodded and released his hand, pulling back the covers and sliding underneath them. Greg quickly stripped out of his clothes, lying down in bed in just his boxers.

Usually he would go to brush his teeth before bed, but Sherlock would just have to deal with his morning breath the next day. He turned the light off and lay down on his back.

Sherlock wasn’t a hugger. Not really. Greg always doted on him, always spent time offering him affection. But this time, Sherlock immediately curled up to his side, resting his head on Greg’s chest. Greg held him close, whispering that it was okay. He’d be fine. Whatever it was, they would sort it.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay awake for. But Sherlock’s eventually breath evened out.

It wasn’t comfortable to have Sherlock lying on him for so long, not without moving. But Greg forced himself to relax, to try and get some sleep. He wouldn’t ever force Sherlock to move, not when he needed him.

* * *

Sleep must have come.

Greg woke up to hear broken cries echoing down the hallway. He groaned and rubbed his face. Sherlock was fast asleep beside him and Greg was glad to see it. He slipped out of bed and pulled his dressing gown on, tiptoeing down the hall.

He stepped into Lily’s room. “Hey, you. What’s wrong?” He walked over to the bed, kneeling down beside it and reaching out to stroke her hair. She reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, still crying.

He hugged her back. “Lily, it’s okay. Bad dreams?”

She nodded, her tears beginning to subside. Gently, Greg lowered her back down on the bed, tucking the covers back around her.

“How about I go and get you a night light? And then all the scary things will run away.” She nodded at him, her eyes wide. Greg handed her a blue teddy bear, which she held to her chest. He kissed her forehead, wiped her cheeks and then stood up. “Two minutes,” he said.

He jogged downstairs and went into the living room to unplug one of the lamps. He found one which wasn’t too bright and carried it upstairs.

He stopped half way up, hearing Sherlock’s voice from his daughter’s room.

“Nothing’s ever going to hurt you,” he said. “Because I’m here. And daddy’s here. And you’re always going to be safe.”

Greg closed his eyes, relief flooding through him. Sherlock was talking again at least. With a soft smile, he stayed standing on the stairs, listening.

“Can you tell me what frightened you? No? No, you don’t need to. You’re always going to be safe, Lily. Always.”

Greg finished walking up the stairs. He smiled as he saw them both, Sherlock sitting up on the bed with his legs stretched out, Lily curled up against his chest.

Sherlock glanced up at him and nodded, and Greg put the lamp down on the desk, plugging it in. Sherlock carefully manoeuvred Lily back onto the bed, tucking her in with her bear. “Good girl,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching out. “Daddy.”

Greg smiled and walked over, leaning down to give her other cheek a kiss. “I’ll leave the light on, okay? Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She smiled tiredly, closing her eyes and nestling back into the pillows. Greg followed Sherlock out of the room and back into his bedroom. He yawned as he reached the bed, lying back down. Sherlock joined him, spooning up behind him, his chest pressing to Greg's back.

“How often does that happen?” Sherlock asked.

“A few times a week.”

“You should buy her a night light. You can get some faint ones, so they won’t keep her up. I’m sure that would help.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Greg,” Sherlock murmured. “I need. Tonight. John and I met Moriarty.”

Greg started to turn round. “What?”

“No,” Sherlock said, holding him still. “Don’t look at me, just listen. He strapped John up with Semtex. At the pool. I don’t know what he wants, or what he’s after, but… the things he said. They were purposeful.”

Greg swallowed, holding onto Sherlock’s hand, wishing he could turn around to see his face.

Sherlock kissed the back of Greg’s neck. “He said ‘I’ll burn you’. ‘I’ll burn the heart out of you’.” There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke again. “You’re not safe while you associate with me. If he knows about you. If he finds out about you. He can't know about us, or this. Greg, I will not let anything happen to you or those children, you have to know that.”

“I know,” Greg whispered. “I know.” He turned around to face Sherlock, drawing him into a soft kiss. “Christ. Always just feels. It feels like we get somewhere and then…”

“I know,” Sherlock said, holding his eyes in the dark. “It’s my fault, I’m not comfortable with this much… intimacy.”

Greg shook his head. “We both just keep… always. Things happen and we don’t even know what we’re doing. What the hell are we doing, Sherlock?”

He stared as Sherlock pulled away, grabbing a notebook and pen from the drawer beside the bed. “What are you doing?” Greg asked. He squinted in the darkness, but couldn’t see anything until Sherlock shone the light from his mobile phone onto the piece of paper.

On it was a single figure of eight.

“Eight?” Greg asked. “What’s that?”

“Or the infinity symbol if you turn it on its side,” Sherlock muttered. “But yes, eight. Or a figure of eight. You see how it never ends?”

“Yeah…”

“You and I. We’ll go around in circles, over and over and I know it’ll be terrible at times. But in the middle. In the middle, those circles cross, you see? At that one point in the middle, the circles meet. And that’s where we’ll meet. When we’re both ready, when Moriarty’s gone, when we’re all safe. When we’re ready.”

Greg stared up at him. “You and me.”

“Yes.”

Greg took hold of the paper, dropping it down beside the bed. He kissed Sherlock, long and deeply, trying to convey just how much those words meant to him.

“We have to pretend for a while,” Sherlock whispered. “Moriarty can never know about this. And neither can anyone else. We can only be colleagues. I won’t risk…”

“I know,” Greg whispered. “I know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t ever think that I don’t want this.”

With a sigh, Greg shook his head and pulled Sherlock into his arms. “Don’t be an idiot, Sherlock. I know.” He closed his eyes and smiled wistfully. “Oh, believe me, I know now.”

He forced himself to stay awake for as long as possible, knowing that in the morning it would be over between them for goodness knows how long. He’d done it before, plenty of times.

Sherlock had never been his to hold onto, not really. But every time, it felt as if they got so close. Almost there. And then the carpet was ripped from under their feet. But one day they would get there. They had to. He only had that to cling to. 


End file.
